


Just Ride

by RoswellSmokingWoman



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Cheating, Dark Will Graham, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Infidelity, M/M, Season 3 AU, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23834803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoswellSmokingWoman/pseuds/RoswellSmokingWoman
Summary: Taken from pensee's prompt: Will and Hannibal haven’t met before Hannibal and Chiyoh roll up needing a car after they break out of the BSHCI. Will thinks they’re husband and wife at first, but he’s forced to call home and tell Molly he’s gonna be late. Will lets Molly know he’s in trouble, and this pisses Hannibal off, but he lets Will live. Cue bonding in the car for a few hundred miles. Chiyoh is not amused.
Relationships: Molly Graham/Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 25
Kudos: 139





	1. Baltimore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pensee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/gifts).



> Song: Lana del Rey--Ride

Being in Baltimore is disgruntling for Will who had assumed that he wouldn’t feel quite so out of place when Jack had called him over to this side of the country for a chat. It’s amusing how he calls it a chat, like it’s some light funny little thing, ha-ha times. No, this is serious business. Only the deranged could laugh at serial murderers, the things Will had seen and abandoned long ago.

Baltimore, the Chesapeake Ripper, the tableaus—Will remembers them all, how they haunted him night after night. Each call from Jack was an alarm that would drag him out of this dark, decrepit dimension, that would pull him through the thick and sticky veil, and bring him back to Earth in his sweat-soaked t-shirt and baby blue boxers clinging to his pale and wet thighs. He had assumed that he would find the Chesapeake Ripper here, the murder scenes greeting him in his mind palace with terrible ease, but almost disappointingly—they don’t.

It’s as if, they with their creator, are locked away. Though he’d avoided the press, the stories that leaked and showed his face, Will was still curious as to who the Ripper was. Not so much with how he looked or sounded, but rather the innerworkings of his mind—there is a missing piece, ever so small, jagged like the rest, lost to him. The Ripper had been caught by happenstance, by Miriam Lass and luck, and no more—his consultation almost pointless in the end, to everyone but him. What he does know of the Ripper is that no words describe him, no classifications could contain him.

Will had disappeared not long after the case, with Molly, to the humid and hot climate of Florida and to sunnier days. He didn’t leave Jack so much as a postal address or a telephone number. Will Graham had almost successfully disappeared. Maybe he should have changed his name out of spite. But he couldn’t. The tiniest part of him called out to him, like a demon perched on his shoulder goading him on— _you want to be found, don’t you? If he really wants you, he’ll have you. And that’s the way you want it to be, in the end. Normal life, that’s banal._

And so, without much protest, and with some grumbling, Will Graham finds himself sitting across from Jack Crawford, Irish Coffee cradled in his hand, letting the taste of whiskey and bitter touch his tongue and remind him, he isn’t a ghost in Baltimore. Though every nerve in his body tells him that he is haunting Baltimore now, the city which is so similar yet so different without the possibility of another sounder looming over head. Will is left aghast at the normalcy of Baltimore instead, a city like any other: bustling, boring. 

“This better be good enough to take me away from Molly. She’s not too happy about it, ya know?” Will spits it out between two sips of coffee, the first to prepare for the words and the latter to swallow his pride for having spoken first.

“Yet you’re here,” Jack notes, raising his eyebrow. “You didn’t have to be.”

Will raises his hand, cocking his head to the left. “Still, you called. And when you call it means I _have_ to come, like it or not. Maybe you would’ve driven down if you could find the address.”

“I don’t like the tone of voice you’re using.”

“I don’t like being taken out of retirement,” Will laughs, looking left and right at the awkward waitresses running to pour coffee for the other patrons. He knows he should be a little quieter, but he’s copying Jack.

And Jack’s no quiet man. His voice booms with every word. “You must’ve seen it in the papers.”

“Molly doesn’t let me read those.” The cup is emptied all too quickly, his throat craving for another bit of liquor.

“Sounds like she’s got you on a short chain. But she let you come here, didn’t she? Or maybe you ran through the back door silently?”

“I tell her to keep me on a short chain. I prefer it that way. Don’t want to think about a world I left behind. And I hadn’t for a while. Then ring, ring, a number I don’t know. Jack Crawford calling.”

“We call him the Tooth Fairy,” Jack continues, ignoring Will’s words.

Will smiles to himself, just a crack. It lets Jack know he’s heard a bit about it, despite the insistence that he hasn’t heard a thing. Old habits die hard.

Jack sighs. “How much do you know?”

“Two families killed, in their homes, a month apart. Similar circumstances,” Will chokes out, a hint of embarrassment on his face. 

“Not “similar.” The same. You ever think about giving me a call?” 

“No.”

“You know what it is.”

“I didn’t call you because I didn’t want to. I don’t think I’d be all that useful to you, Jack. I never think about it anymore. I don’t believe I could do it now.”

Jack fishes out two photos from his coat pocket, frowning. He shouldn’t have to do this, not in public. Will’s being stubborn. “All dead.”

Smiling faces stare aback at him, pearly whites shining. Will wants to look away, but he can’t bear to. They call to him, like the opposing end of a magnet to his psyche. “Two happy families,” Will seethes, gnashing his teeth. He forgets, for a second, that he has a happy family at home. Instead this family is mutilated, gone almost. 

“This freak seems to be in phase with the moon. Killed the Jacobis in Chicago almost four weeks ago. Full moon. Killed the Leeds family in Buffalo night before last. One day short of a lunar month. If we’re lucky, we have a little over three weeks before he does it again.”

Will trills his lips, turning his head away from the pictures. He’s seen enough of them. Despite himself, despite Molly and Walter who are waiting at home, the crime has already infested his mind. Replacing sandy beaches and the coconut scent of suntan lotion, is a tinge of blood in his nostrils. He’s ready to walk out of here and into the Leeds home, his fingers vibrating with volatile energy.

“I know what I’m asking, Will. I wish to God I didn’t have to.”

Will knows it’s a lie, and Jack should know better than to lie to him of all people. He wants to be nice, but he’s not. “Tomorrow. I’ll go tomorrow.”

Jack nods at him, waving over at the waitress to bring the bill. Will doesn’t say goodbye when he stands to leave, letting Jack cover the coffee. While he’s here, he might as well take a detour, walk through the streets of the city which the Chesapeake Ripper resides in—the city he spent countless nights walking through after the fact, retracing supposed steps. He must have bought groceries at this exotic market over there and sat on these opera steps with tears in his eyes after the angelic soprano’s notes have long left his ears. Will had lived for a while, breathed for a while even, as an echo of him—until it all became too much, and he was on the brink of becoming someone else, someone he would’ve hunted down for a living. He had to stop. But he can’t stop himself now. The temptation has taken a hold of him, and he’s not about to tug himself loose when the city beckons to him to bring back a bit of blackened beauty onto the streets. 

****

He finds himself in front of the BHSCI, the large building looming in front of him like an enormous sarcophagus, housed with old, dangerous gods and idle worshipers wanting to be them. He should know better than this, he thinks to himself, than to walk into the Chesapeake Ripper’s front door. The thought that he is behind bars or some glass—whatever to shield others from _him_ —doesn’t comfort Will. It seems grotesque that they would cage him as if he’s some animal, when he something, someone much higher.

His feet like cinder blocks keep him planted to the ground. He wants to walk to the front door and open it with ease, but his body doesn’t allow him to. He stands, breathing shallow breaths, imagining instead what it would be like to meet the man. Would he look into Will’s eyes and find a tender yearning, neglected from years of denial? He had thought so often about him in his life before Molly.

 _Molly._ He laughs to himself, remembering his wife at home. This is why he shouldn’t be here—it is too easy for him to go back, back to the time where he didn’t have a wife, a family. Now they seem to be a burden, preventing him from himself. Somehow, with the glaze of time coating his memories, it seems sweet now, that old life. Perhaps he wasn’t happy, but he was never bored—that’s for sure.

He turns, a Japanese woman standing in front of him with a scowl on her face. He opens his mouth to ask her a question, but he quickly finds himself on the ground, curled up in pain. He lurches on the round, struggling to stand, but is knocked down yet again by her swift attack. He’s not quite sure what’s happened, but the world seems so fuzzy now, colder with each passing second.

****

The low rumble of a car wakes him. He realizes quickly he’s been placed in the back seat, warm and sticky faux-leather sticking to his face. A blond-haired man in a white jumpsuit drives, and the Japanese woman sits in shotgun. She looks back into the mirror, brown eyes so dark they could be black, checking on him. She turns quickly noticing the whites of his eyes and huffs in dissatisfaction. The driver must have escaped the BHSCI, Will reasons. Why else would the woman have assaulted him? A simple case of wrong place, wrong time.

“Cheer up, Chiyoh,” the man soothes. “Three’s company.”

“I don’t know how wise this is,” she spits back.

Will rushes to pull out his cellphone hastily dialing Molly’s number. He’s not sure why he calls her instead of the police. Maybe it’s that he finds her comforting.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she shouts at him, reaching out to grab the phone from his hands.

The man looks at Will through the rear-view mirror, smiling. “Don’t worry. He won’t say a word. Tell her you’ll come home late.”

Chiyoh bunches up her lips, crossing her arms over her chest, staring out at the vast expanse of the road in front of her. Will almost doesn’t notice Molly calling out for him, asking how the meeting went with Jack. He shakes his head, regaining his concentration.

“I won’t be home for a while.” He finds himself follow the man’s instructions. He wants to see how it will play out, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“You don’t sound so good,” Molly retorts.

“I’m not good, Molly. Look I’m in trouble, but I’ll be okay. I think. I hope.” Will manages to squeeze in before Chiyoh rips the phone from his hand.

Hannibal smiles to himself, watching the man in the back-seat gulp. It was quite rude of him to not follow instructions when Hannibal had been so clear. He thinks of how long it’s been since he’s tasted flesh, swallowing thickly at the recollection of the flavor, how fat dripped down his throat. A bit of entertainment before dinner could never hurt, he thinks to himself.

“What’s your name?” Hannibal asks him, smiling wider.

“Will—Will Graham.”

“I’m so very glad to meet you, Will.” Hannibal turns his attention to the road then, silence engulfing the trio.

Will thinks of the duo, sitting in front of him. The woman stares at the man, scolding him silently. She must be his wife, Will thinks to himself. They seem ill-suited for each other, but their pairing is not impossible. She did help him escape, after all. Will inhales deeply and looks out through the window, realizing they must be far from Baltimore now, far from the place where he had ached to be.


	2. Honeybee Inn

They had been riding for hours in silence. Will prefers it that way. It gives him the illusion of being alone and not in the company of some mentally unstable man and his wife. But even the silence gets to Will, who would happily escape to his mind palace and make a home there, rather than participate in needless conversation. In the silence he learns much about the man and woman sitting in the front seats, his eyes fixated on them.

The man taps his hand on the steering wheel, almost impatiently from time to time. This isn’t characteristic of him, Will realizes. He is not an impatient man. Even though he is used to silence, having been imprisoned for so long, he enjoys company. He loves to be the center of attention. It’s possible he’d make interesting conversation because of this. Being ignored, however, as he is now—that is where he feels uncomfortable. But it’s more than that, Will realizes. He’s a patient man. He does not make the first move. He waits for the other to slip, before taking his own risks. He is calculating, but not overly so.

The woman on the other hand, Chiyoh—she relishes the silence. She would bathe herself in it if she could. She finds words almost useless. People’s eyes must be a better indicator for her, so that she could stare into their souls and find their truth. She only talks if necessary and with as few words as possible. Bumbling, long phrases would irritate her. But she likes it when her husband talks, and she would listen to him if he were talking. She’s more afraid of Will talking, instead. She’s not sure if she could stand him. She’s unhappy that her husband wants to take him along on this ride.

Will wishes he could be satisfied with knowing this much about the pair, but he feels the innate desire to delve deeper into them, particularly into the man in the jumpsuit who shifts in his seat uncomfortably. The jumpsuit can’t be comfortable for long rides, such as these—he’s practically itching to get out of it, as if it’s some molted and uncomfortably itchy skin that he can’t seem to shake off of himself.

“White is a flattering color on you,” Will jokes, watching the hairs stand up on the back of Hannibal’s neck.

The man cracks a smile, looking back at Will in the rearview mirror. “I can’t say that I’ll want to be wearing it any time soon.”

“You dress well, normally,” Will concludes. “You must be more comfortable in suits and vests than in anything else. Your hands are steady. You were a doctor long ago. But your carry yourself differently, now. Like you left the operating room for something else. More dignified. Intellectual. It must be ironic that you ended up in a mental institution. You don’t quite belong.”

Hannibal hums to himself, pleasantly surprised at Will’s outburst. This would be fun, for him, after all. “Quite the assertion, considering that I’ve kidnapped you.”

“Is that what this is?” Will smiles, popping his head between the seats to see Hannibal’s eyes, deep and brown. Mostly lifeless, he is surprised to find amusement within them.

“Wouldn’t that be your worry?”

“I have no reason to believe that you won’t be letting me go. Your wife seems to be opposed to the idea, though.”

“My wife?” Hannibal chuckles, brushing his hand over Chiyoh’s shoulder. He decides he would play this game; see how far they will get. “I would like to know more about you, Will.”

Will inhales, thinking. In his classes he always taught that it is wrong to get too close to the killer—and this man is a killer. Will knows that without a doubt, from the arch of his back and the ways his lips curl devilishly. He enjoys the long and slow kill, playing with his victims. Attachment to him would be dangerous.

But the idea of it is almost delicious, a shock spreading throughout Will from his toes to his head. It’s been so long since he had stepped into the mind of a killer, waded in those waters, and drowned in them willingly. He is more interesting than the Tooth Fairy, certainly. Will’s not sorry that he won’t be able to help Jack, in the end. 

Will nibbles on his lower lip. “I’m not keen on the idea. Not without reciprocity.”

“You choose what you want to tell me, and in return I’ll tell you about myself,” Hannibal offers, smiling over at Chiyoh who gives him a wistful glance. “Chiyoh need not participate in our game.”

“Is this a game for you?”

“No questions. Only answers.”

“I’d like to stop, stretch my legs a bit. Then maybe Chiyoh and I can switch seats. What do you say?”

“Alright.”

Hannibal takes a sharp turn right towards the woods. The road becomes rougher, rocks ricocheting from the tires to the metal underbelly of the car. The pebbled road becomes dirt, trees masking the car now. Will knows that the sandy haired man isn’t unintelligent. He wouldn’t stop unless absolutely sure no one would see them. Hannibal pulls over, turning back to Will with a nod.

The trio exits the car, Will careful not to bolt. Hannibal trusts him, which puzzles him. He doesn’t notice his own ambivalence at the thought of running—though ambivalence isn’t quite the correct word. Will knows he should run, that it would be the normal thing to do. The peculiarity of the experience keeps Will tethered to it, unable to escape.

Hannibal sees in Will’s eyes a unique thrill at the thought of engaging with him. Will wouldn’t want to run. This is perhaps the most exciting event that has happened to him in quite some time, though with a mind like that Hannibal wouldn’t like to believe that Will’s life is mundane. No, Will is a byproduct of intensity and violence, peppered with sadness. He is an extreme empath. Despite his fear of knowing, Will needs to know—the same way Hannibal needs to play with Will. It’s a compulsion, almost uncontrollable. Neither have it in them to suppress their urges with respect to each other.

“I hadn’t noticed you’d taken my car,” Will breathes, passing his hand over the shiny red exterior. “It needs an oil change. The engine’ll start sputtering.”

“There’s no indicator on,” Chiyoh snaps back. She doesn’t see what Hannibal sees in Will. Will isn’t interested in fooling either of them.

“There’s a canister of oil in the back. Just top it off. It’ll run longer that way.”

Hannibal nods at him, going back into the trunk and popping it open. “It’s your car,” he breathes, passing the canister over to Will. His fingers brush over the back of Will’s hand delicately, their eyes meeting. “I’m sorry that I’ll have to put you to work.”

“You’re being not sincere,” Will teases.

As Will changes the oil, his phone rings again—no doubt Molly checking in on him. He should answer it, he knows, but opts to call her later, looking over head at the sunset. They would have to stop, eventually. They would need food, water, and rest. He would call her then.

Hannibal smirks when Will doesn’t answer the phone, screwing the cap back onto the bottle and throwing it in the back of the car instead. Will takes a chance to assert some control over the situation. “We better be on our way. There won’t be much for miles, I think.”

“We’re not stopping,” Chiyoh clarifies. “It’s a risk.”

“We’ll have to,” Hannibal protests.

She presses her lips together, thinking. She hadn’t planned this, Will realizes. His escape was a last-minute decision. She should have known better. “There’s an inn, two states away. An old woman who doesn’t use a computer. Keeps everything in the ledger, old school. It’ll be a safe bet. Honeybee Inn,” Will suggests.

“Doesn’t that sound lovely?” Hannibal smiles, stepping into the car, Chiyoh’s frown unnoticed.

****

They reach the inn in the early hours of the morning, the sun just barely peaking over the horizon. Hannibal had promised that they would resume their conversation later and that the next morning Will would sit shotgun. He didn’t want to upset Chiyoh too much, after forcing her to endure their unexpected addition. But it was odd, when they arrived, that Hannibal had asked for two room keys. Certainly, Will wouldn’t go unwatched.

Chiyoh claims one key for herself, shoving the other towards Hannibal and leaving the two men alone. Will shoots Hannibal an inquisitive glance, puzzled.

“Not my wife,” Hannibal offers, honestly.

“She’s protective of you,” Will muses. “I didn’t know what else she could be.”

“More of an old friend.”

Their room is small, the bed only a queen. With how Will sleeps, he would be surprised if there would be any space for Hannibal at all. “Chiyoh will bring us a change of clothes in the morning,” he states simply, going to the bed and undressing himself.

He sits in the on the bed in his boxers, breathing in deeply, feeling the sensation of freedom on his skin. It feels almost unusual to be like this, nearly naked, without the eyes of a guard on him. He takes a peek, wondering how Will would react to this sudden change. It disappoints him when Will doesn’t. He crawls under the sheets, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for Will to slip under the covers.

It’s not lost on him that those piercing blue eyes and sharp lines of his jaw are attractive. Will has a strange beauty to him, ragged almost. Hannibal wonders just how much he could extract from him before the end of this—before his celebratory meal. But Hannibal would not have Will without Will’s enthusiasm. Will would need to want him, every piece of him. He wouldn’t enjoy it otherwise, without complete submission.

“I’m a criminal profiler. I was a criminal profiler,” Will tells him, as he unbuttons his shirt. “I was supposed to come out of retirement tomorrow.”

“Do you find the criminal mind fascinating, Will?”

“You said no questions.”

“Forgive my intrigue.” Hannibal licks his lips, turning away. Will wouldn’t notice it right away, Hannibal reasons, but he knows that he must be careful. “I was a doctor a long time ago. You were right.”

Will lies down in the bed, leaving a distinct space between them. He doesn’t find comfort in closeness; it unsettles him, instead. “You won’t kill me in my sleep.” It isn’t a question.

“Your statements shouldn’t be about me, but you’re right. I have no interest in killing you, now.”

Will stares up at the ceiling, imagining his dogs at home with Molly. He misses the dogs. He’d forgotten to call Molly. “I want to ask you a question.”

“Only if you answer one of mine, first.”

“Fine.”

Hannibal crosses his hands over his chest, giving himself time. He knows what he wants to ask Will—it’s what he wants to know of everybody. He has a feeling that Will feels more comfortable with criminals than with the law enforcement he works with. But he wants to know what keeps Will up at night. What had brought him into retirement in the first place.

“What’s your deepest secret?” Hannibal asks, knowing it sounds foolish—something kids would ask to each other in a game of truth or dare at a slumber party. 

The sound of Will’s laugh is charming, wavering in the air. “Really? That?” Will shakes his head. “Not even my wife knows that.”

“Secrets shouldn’t be kept from spouses.”

Will taps his fingers on the bed, weighing the pros and cons in his head. What should it matter if he were to tell the other man his secret? If all goes well, he will let Will go in the end. He’s sure about this, though the other man isn’t aware of that yet.

Without a response, Hannibal continues on. “It’s quite powerful to reveal one’s whole self to your beloved. It’s perhaps the only way we can recognize our truest partner in life. So many people keep secrets from those we love. Isn’t it a shame?”

“I worked on the Chesapeake Ripper case. Years ago.”

“Oh?” Hannibal’s breath hitches in surprise at the name. “Did you feel like you could understand him? As a criminal profiler?”

“He’s all I ever think about,” Will admits, his voice breaking. “I managed to think about him less when I left the FBI as a consultant. Being back in Baltimore brought up memories. I think I would have caught him if Miriam Lass hadn’t been so lucky.” Will stops for a moment, looking at Hannibal who stares back at him with soulless eyes. “He is an artist. I went to the BHSCI to talk to him today. To know him. I’d never seen his face, not even in the papers. I didn’t let myself. The first time I see the Chesapeake Ripper, I want it to be unobscured. I want that more than anything else. That’s my secret.”

“Your desire is dangerous, Will,” Hannibal notes. He watches as Will turns around, his heart beating quicker now that Will isn’t looking. He can let his icy façade fall, his eyes softening. Someone wants to know him, truly. Will finds beauty in his work. “ _He is an artist_.” Hannibal can’t help but smile to himself. “What’s your question, Will?”

“Would you let me ask you another time? I’m tired. I need to sleep.”

“Of course,” Hannibal responds, aching to continue their conversation. He would not disappoint Will Graham tomorrow, or the days after that. He would let Will Graham know him, at least some of him. He is so eager, after all.


	3. Suits

The clothes are left at the door the next day, Hannibal up much earlier than Will. He’s already dressed when Will wakes. The chirping of birds can be heard through the window, a few stragglers remaining in the late autumn. Will smiles, grumbling as he rubs his eyes. The other man’s voice, deep and gravelly, enters his ears unexpectedly. Will is reminded that he’s not at home with Molly. He doesn’t miss her. He should. He knows. The thought settles within him well, oddly.

“I hope you slept well,” Hannibal tells him. “We need to depart soon.”

“Irritatingly polite,” Will begins. “It’s your trademark. Much better than being rude, isn’t it?” He can’t help himself, even just out of the haze of sleep, Will feels the need to reach into the other man’s soul and pull something out of it. Something that would make him understand the ghostly figure haunting him now. 

“I find the rude unacceptable, yes,” Hannibal hums, walking over to the nightstand where he keeps Will’s phone. “Three missed calls from a man named Jack. Is that a problem?”

“Yes and no,” Will responds nonchalantly. “It’s about work. I need to let him know I’m no longer on the case. He’ll call after that again, but it won’t matter.”

Hannibal nods, handing him the phone. There’s trust there, in that reach, Hannibal’s fingertips brushing over Will’s. Hannibal can’t deny that there’s something in their touch. A small bolt of electricity. It startles him, to feel his fingers suddenly shaken by the sensation. Perhaps, it’s why he doesn’t need to caution Will of the trust he’s placing in him and how easily that trust can be lost. Will wouldn’t betray him. Not when things are getting so interesting. Would he?

Will puts the call on speaker, smiling up at Hannibal. Appease your enemy, and you won’t get hurt. 

_“Graham, what the fuck?”_ Jack’s voice booms over the other end of the line.

“I’ve been busy, Jack,” Will replies.

_“I’ve got Molly calling me twice a day. She knows you came to see me. And then you disappeared. Do I need to be worried?”_

“I can’t take the case. It’s too much. I need time off. To figure myself out. Tell Molly I’ll be home in a few weeks.”

 _“Is this a midlife crisis?”_ Jack asks, but Will ends the call, flipping the phone over so he won’t have to look at the screen.

Hannibal raises his eyebrow, “Rather rude.”

“Jack or me?”

“Both.” But Will’s rudeness doesn’t irk him. He’s straight to the point, honest. There’s a quirkiness to it, as if he doesn’t understand that he’s being rude. Or maybe he’s echoing Jack’s rudeness. “You’re a pure empath,” Hannibal tells him. He doesn’t mean to continue their game, but he does—this time with different rules. He’ll be doing the guessing. Will would have to answer. He can ask questions, and Will wouldn’t be able to resist.

“That’s a description for it, I guess. I’d like to think it made me good at my job.”

“It made you quit your job. You get too close. It’s hard to put walls up when everyone has a key to get through the door. You have no effective barriers to protect yourself from the fallout of being in someone else’s mind.”

“Neither do you, it would seem, Doctor.”

“Doctor?” Hannibal asks.

“It’s what I’ll call you. It seems that you wouldn’t want to give me your name. Not so easily. It was the question I wanted to ask last night. You wouldn’t have answered.”

“I’ve gone by many names,” Hannibal replies, a wry smile across his face.

“If I figure yours out, will you let me live?” Will asks him, standing from the bed.

“Perhaps,” is all Hannibal can say.

Will leaves Hannibal alone with a nod, walking into the bathroom. He strips himself of his undergarment, examining his naked form in the mirror. “ _Is this a midlife crisis?”_ Jack’s voice rings in his ears.

 _I don’t know, is it?_ Will wants to tell the remnant of Jack in his mind. He isn’t so young anymore, and he sees the evidence on his body. He’s stronger now, stockier than when he was a young cop in New Orleans. But there’s an ache deep in his bones that time’s left on him. And he can’t slip the weight of the past off of his shoulders, no matter what strength he’s built in his body. It’s misleading to think that his outer shell could ever represent what’s truly inside of him. He shakes his head, entering the shower.

The Doctor’s getting to him, it must be. He lathers the soap into his body, trying to extract the tainted tidbits of the other man’s mind. He watches them sink down into the drain, only to crawl back out of the pipes and back into him. Should he try to escape? Will wonders if he can try.

When he exits the shower, he sees the open window adjacent to the mirror, brown leaves on a tree shaking in the wind. He could be free there, running without constraint, towards what he knows. Back to Molly and Wally. To his dogs. But there’s no murder and fright back home. He’s grown comfortable in nightmare lands, with nightmare men, chasing him in his sleep. Why should he ever wake up and return home? It’s a padded cell he’s trapped himself in. He leaves the bathroom, a fresh pair of underwear on his body. Hannibal waits for him, leaning against the wall, eyes closed.

“You’re still here,” Hannibal notes.

“Escaping didn’t feel right,” Will says, going to the bed.

He takes a peek into the bag of clothes set aside for him. The Doctor’s taste, of course. A suit, clean cut. It’s less ostentatious than the one Hannibal is wearing, of course. Chiyoh knows that much about Will Graham—that he would rather walk out in his dirty clothes, or maybe even in only his boxers, than wear something so uncharacteristic.

He watches as Will gets dressed, coming over to him when Will puts the button-down shirt on. Hannibal pushes Will’s hands away and brushes his finger over Will’s abdomen. Goosebumps cover his alabaster skin. Could Will feel it too, the attraction burbling within Hannibal? Hannibal’s heart springs within his chest. It would be too soon. 

Hannibal buttons the buttons slowly, leaning in, smelling the fresh soap scent of him. Next comes the tie, which Hannibal ties in a half Windsor knot. It suits Will’s smaller frame better, he thinks. Will observes Hannibal as Hannibal dresses him carefully, his eyes stuck on the man who takes intense care with him. At this moment, it’s difficult to think that the Doctor had been a criminal capable of murder at all—and Will is sure that he is a murderer. But there’s a gentleness to his touch, a keen care he displays for those he grows attached to.

And the Doctor is attached to him. Will hums, leaning in closer. He can hear the other man’s heartbeat quicken at the lack of distance between them. “ _Interesting.”_ Will muses, excited by this new development.

“Perfect,” Hannibal whispers, turning Will so that he may see himself in the mirror, coat jacket left on the bed.

Will doesn’t immediately recognize himself with the outfit on his body. It fits him perfectly, hugging every jagged edge of his body in a way that makes him seem less prickly. He smiles at Hannibal, a silent thank you.

“Chiyoh’s waiting,” Hannibal tells him. “We better be going.”

****

The dawn is just breaking over the horizon, straggles of orange peaking over the hill in the distance. The car still stands in the same place, untouched from yesterday. Hannibal gets in the driver’s seat, Chiyoh following his lead and sitting in the back. Will takes a moment, looking back at the inn, wondering if he’d missed his opportunity to leave. He enters the car with a sigh, sitting next to Hannibal.

“Back to our game, then?” Will asks as Hannibal pulls away from the inn.

“If you wish,” Hannibal responds, driving out into the hills.

The car disappears in the thick swath of forest surrounding the inn, branches scratching the hood of the car as they plow forward. Will isn’t sure what he should mention next, but he watches as Hannibal steals glances at him, always checking what emotion is crossing Will’s face. Will’s emotions matter quite a bit to him, it would seem. Should he feign disgust? Will knows how it would disappoint the Doctor so, not with Will but with himself.

“You are lonely,” Will finally utters, his voice crackling with ill intent. “It isn’t a result of being imprisoned. You have been lonely since childhood. Born one of those wretched things, sometimes in hospitals, crying. We sometimes call them human. You aren’t.”

Hannibal chuckles. “If not human, then what am I?’

“More akin to a god than a man. Not by some ill-conceived notion of mortality. You’re above others. Your perception of the world is so starkly different from the masses, it’s easier for you to perceive yourself from a different vantage point. But there are few like you. Even killers don’t seem to reach the same plane you operate on.” Will pauses, smiling to himself. “You are lonely, Doctor.”

Hannibal gulps, gripping the steering wheel. “I have never needed for friends or company.”

“One cannot need for something they don’t know they can have.”

“You want to be my friend, Will,” Hannibal laughs. He’s not sure if it’s a question or a statement, but the prospect of friendship burns into his skin as a desperate temptation. First comes friends, then comes tension, next comes… It would be a lovely game.

“Could we ever be friends?” Will asks, putting his feet up on the dashboard, watching as the suit-pants wrinkle around his knees.

“I would hope so,” Hannibal replies, eyes fixated on the long expanse of Will’s legs. “You’ll find me interesting.”

“I don’t,” Will scoffs, “I don’t find you that interesting.”

“You will.”

Chiyoh silently observes from Will’s former vantage point, find a dangerous storm brewing in the front seats. Her hands shake as she watches Will play so effortlessly with Hannibal, knowing Hannibal has weaknesses. She knows that bright glint in his eyes, better than anyone. She’d seen it once before—for his darling sister Mischa. And now she sees it with Will Graham, eyes burning brighter now than ever before. It shouldn’t happen so quickly, that Hannibal should fall in love with Will Graham. It seems that a lonely stork has found another stork, one that’s lonely in the same way. In their kindred pain, a bond is forming before her eyes. She knows all too well that storks mate for life. But Hannibal isn’t one for lifelong commitments.

He is a man of self-preservation, and with every word spoken Will threatens that impulse. They both speak a language that shouldn’t be shared between any two people. Chiyoh knows she must stop that bond from growing, that she should do what Hannibal would never do. Will Graham cannot remain alive at the end of this trip.

“You’re a fisherman,” Hannibal notes, “You lure your victims.”

“I’m no killer,” Will says, flatly.

“Is that so?” Hannibal replies. “You’ve thought about killing.”

“It’s what I have to do.”

“You enjoy it. It’s why you quit. You enjoyed being in the Chesapeake Ripper’s mind. What you found inside of it, you loved it.”

“I did,” Will confesses, turning away from Hannibal. “We’ll have to press pause on our game.”

“So be it,” Hannibal sighs, brushing his hand over Will’s arm.


End file.
